


Double Dew Dare You, Dude

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Feeding Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Inspired by the summer heat, Kenny hedges his bets on a risky dare.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Double Dew Dare You, Dude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Succubutts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Succubutts/gifts).



> for my nasty partner in crime. this didn't get as gross as i would've liked, unfortunately. kenny's a bad dom but he's trying his best.
> 
> inspired in part by the summer heat but also i never should have gone ziplining. idk why ppl hate that episode it's one of my favorites.
> 
> see the end for accompanying art to round things off

South Park’s average summer temp rarely exceeded the mid-seventies. Once a point of youthful contention, Kenny had since learned to appreciate his hometown’s mild climate. A few spontaneous trips to Las Vegas were all it took to convince him he wasn’t fit to exist anywhere sunblock was required. 

That wasn’t to say South Park never experienced its own sweltering days, especially now that global warming had gained enough traction to pour western warmfronts into central Colorado’s mountain basin. Heat waves came and went with puzzling frequency, and the confused townsfolk adapted in turn. Everyone began firing up their dormant air-conditioning units, learning of thermistors, fan blades, and air filters by magnitude of disrepair. Sprinklers and water guns flew off the shelves, ice cream trucks made record profits, and the public pool often exceeded maximum capacity. 

Kenny was unable to reach the store quick enough to nab a sprinkler or Super Soaker, ice cream was nothing more than a temporary, costly balm, and he’d rather face an army of one thousand men than face the one hundred children brigading the public pool. Thus forced to suffer the old-fashioned way, he arranged several oscillating fans, all connected in a fish net of extension cords, around the first floor of his home. 

Neither he nor his boyfriend dared go upstairs where the rising heat rested on its laurels. For the past two nights they’d languished in the living room, their encampment evidenced by a ripe cloud of body odor the fans failed to disperse. Unable to afford a gargantuan bill, they turned the AC unit on and off at methodically timed intervals--once the warm air had been sufficiently recycled, it was time to turn it off again. Despite the cockteasing, a split-second of blissfully cool air was preferable to the stale stagnancy open windows invited. 

Draped across the couch during one such lukewarm interim, his hair looped in a messy ponytail, Kenny lifted his shirtless shoulders from the armrest and appraised Cartman whose lap currently functioned as a footrest. 

CSlumped low, head tipped back, Cartman had corralled his sweaty bangs behind a bandanna and hacked the sleeves of his t-shirt off in a fit of rage like some fat, angry Rambo. He raised a can of Double Dew to his lips and chugged the last of its contents in one go, let out a petulant belch, and tossed it away. 

He opened his eyes to affix Kenny with a glare. “What the fuck are you looking at?” 

Kenny innocently flipped his gaze toward the ceiling. “Nothing.” 

“Good,” Cartman grunted. “I feel so gross.” 

Kenny didn’t doubt that. For all the anguish he was experiencing he figured Cartman, who weighed at least eighty pounds more than him, felt the heat tenfold. Yet judging by the tone of his voice Kenny knew he was instead referring to his outward appearance. He detested looking anything but his best; whereas the cold was forgiving to those big-boned, the heat had turned him into a sentient pile of goo. 

Kenny retracted his feet from Cartman’s lap and slotted against Cartman’s side. Short as he was heavy, Cartman sneered up at him through the gap in their height difference. Kenny stuck his tongue past his parted lips before anymore snark was deployed, got a passing taste of soda and misery before Cartman shoved him off. 

“Cut it out! It’s too goddamn hot for that shit.” 

Kenny grinned. “You mean you, right?” 

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Yes, Kenny.” He gestured down his sweat-soaked front. “I’m too sexy for my shirt. Already got rid of the sleeves.”

“Take it off,” Kenny suggested, sliding his hand underneath the hem. 

Cartman arrested his wandering touch in a meaty grip. “Fuck you. Let go of me.” 

Kenny surrendered, but not without sending a sidelong glance at the crescent shadows puddling beneath Cartman’s man boobs. He could only imagine the state of his skin, salty and fat as a Christmas ham. His boy was packing some cake; he’d take a bite no matter the weather, if only Cartman weren’t so adamant about presentation. 

His eyes trailed to the floor where Cartman’s discarded beverage lay. “Want another soda?” 

Cartman vocalized a wordless affirmative. Kenny patted his belly, then launched over the back of the couch before Cartman arrested him in another ocular chokehold. 

The kitchen tile was covered in a sticky film that clung to his feet with every step toward the fridge. He relished the outpouring of cold air until his nipples hardened, then snatched a Double Dew and forced himself to shut the door. 

Pausing behind the couch, he shelved his elbows on its back and pressed cold can against the side of Cartman’s neck. 

“Aw, shit!” Cartman yelped at the disturbance, then relaxed. “Aw, shit...” 

Kenny smirked. “Feels nice?” 

Cartman’s head drooped. “Uh-huh.” 

Kenny removed the soda and mouthed the cool patch of Cartman’s skin, licked a path along the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Really, really nice?” 

Cartman shuddered. “You’re nasty.” 

Kenny hummed, pressing a final kiss behind Cartman’s ear. He hiked a leg up over the couch and flopped down. “Here.” 

Cartman cracked the soda can open without fanfare. He straightened, lengthening the column of his throat into a funnel--then pulled off with a muted gasp and pressed his wrist against his lips to stifle a burp. 

Kenny unclenched his jaw, belatedly realizing he’d been gritting his teeth. He stared, mouth agape, as Cartman dove back for a second drink with equal if not greater fervor. 

Brow pinched, cheeks billowing in and out, audibly swallowing now, a bead of sweat trickled down his temple and disappeared in the folds of his jaw. Kenny bit his tongue to stop himself from chasing after it. He’d have liked to think the heat was messing with his head, but the chub firming in his shorts was inspired by his own sick, sugary, sun-drenched satisfaction.

Cartman made a small noise of distress. He must’ve decided to cut his losses and go for gold, as he leaned his head back all the way until the can was held straight above his mouth. His other hand roved toward his stomach, instinctively gauging the excess consumption. 

Kenny curled his legs to his chest and bit into his kneecap. Finish it, he mentally commanded. Drink it all, big boy--

Cartman dropped his chin and tossed the soda aside, chest heaving. The air trapped in his esophagus lanced the air he was trying to intake. Both clashed at the back of his throat, resulting in a painful hiccup. 

He grimaced and wiped his mouth. A new wave of sweat spawned on his brow. He tugged his bandanna off; half his bangs flopped low, the other half held upright by moisture. “Thanks,” he panted. “I needed that.” 

Kenny unlatched his teeth from his knee. “Need one more?” 

Cartman swung a puzzled look in his direction. “Another soda? No, I’m good.” 

“You sure?” 

Cartman reclined, nodding. His hand remained on his stomach. “I’m full, dude.” 

Such a simple phrase, yet so absolute in its effect. Kenny’s cock pulsed. “I’ve seen you drink a whole two liter in ten minutes, man. You ain’t done.” 

The haze dissipated from Cartman’s eyes, which narrowed suspiciously. “Excuse me?” 

Kenny swallowed; he hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “I’m just saying.” 

“Noted,” Cartman sniffed. His head lolled backwards. “Now shut up.” 

“But--” 

“I said shut up, Kenny.” 

Kenny reinserted his teeth into the bite mark on his knee, thinking. Then: “I dare you.”

“I’m not ten anymore,” Cartman said. “Try again.” 

“Okay, I double dare you--” 

“Kenny, I swear to Christ--” 

“I Double Dew dare you, dude,” Kenny said. He unbent his legs, opening his semi to inspection. 

Cartman scowled with unsurprised disgust, though a more telling blush sizzled across his face. 

Something in his gaze hardened. “Say it three times fast, and I will.” 

“I Double Dew dare you, dude,” Kenny dutifully recited. He tossed his arm over the back of the couch, used it as leverage to pull himself closer. "I Double Dew dare you, dude.” He angled his hips, grazing Cartman’s thigh with his crotch, mouth lowered to Cartman’s ear. "I Double Dew--” 

Cartman elbowed him off. “Alright, you nasty fuck! Go before I change my mind!” 

Kenny bonelessly careened to the floor, popped on all fours, and righted to his feet. He returned toting the twelve-now-ten pack of soda. “Just so I don’t have to keep going back and forth,” he said, placing it on the coffee table. 

Cartman bent forward, elbows on his knees, and peered at the label. “Twelve ounces by twelve counts. That’s twelve squared. Do you know how many ounces that is?” 

Kenny snorted. “What am I, Steven Hawking?” 

“You’re a buffoon,” Cartman said. “One hundred forty four. That’s gotta be, like...” He fished between the couch cushions for his phone. “According to Google’s calculations, two two liters.” 

Kenny primly sat down. “See? That ain’t so bad.” 

Cartman chucked his phone at Kenny’s shoulder. “So you say.” 

“C’mon,” Kenny drawled, and slipped his hand atop Cartman’s leg. His palm was of average size, supplemented by bony piano fingers, but he didn’t even come close to encompassing Cartman’s thigh. “It'll be no sweat.” 

“I’m perspiring profusely,” Cartman reminded him. 

Kenny dug his fingertips into the silky fabric of Cartman’s basketball shorts, seeking the plush flesh underneath. “You can do it, big boy.” 

Cartman arched an eyebrow. “Big boy, huh?” 

“Yup.” Kenny thumbed the joint of Cartman’s thigh, tacitly avoiding the adjacent bulge. “You’re a good boy too, aren’tcha?” 

Cartman chewed his lip, commiserating. Kenny prodded his teeth apart with his tongue. 

Cartman’s penis betrayed him, giving a little twitch beside Kenny’s hand. “Kenny--princess--” 

“Your highness,” Kenny corrected. 

“Your highness,” Cartman said. 

Kenny palmed the crook of Cartman’s elbow, swept his thumb beneath the ragged edge of his truncated shirt for some side boob action. He was so soft and warm and big, all slick with sweat.

Cartman exhaled, tense beneath Kenny’s touch. “I’m a good boy, your highness.” 

Kenny nipped his doughy jaw. “We’ll see.” 

He peeled off and stuck his hand through the twelve pack’s cardboard slit. His fingers closed on a can; its brethren clunked forward as he took it for sacrifice. He slapped it into Cartman’s palm then shuffled backwards, chin in his hands, smiling with unbridled excitement. 

“Are you gonna stare at me the whole time?” Cartman asked flatly.

“Maybe.” 

“Well, don’t.” 

Kenny pouted. “But--” 

“I’m serious,” Cartman said. “I can’t fucking do this with you looking at me like that.” 

Kenny was sure he’d been looking at Cartman only with love and adoration, but perhaps some ravenous thirst snuck in. He obligingly pivoted to face the television and swiped the remote off the coffee table. 

The screen lit up in the middle of a TNT Star Wars marathon. Kenny had seen each movie so many times that he could absentmindedly follow along and pretend his attention wasn’t salaciously divided. 

Luke Skywalker’s journey was heralded by a fizzy whisper as Cartman popped the can’s tab. He started with small sips, nothing crazy. It could’ve been any normal movie-viewing experience if not for the half-mast sail in Kenny’s shorts. 

Kenny shifted so they were pressed side-to-side. Three extra sugary and caffeinated drinks in, Cartman’s knee bounced a jittery beat alongside his own. Kenny chanced anchoring it with his palm; Cartman cocked his leg out in response. He kept his eyes glued to the television screen, declining the overt taunt to check between Cartman’s thighs. 

Mark Hamill stared upon the horizon full of teenage wanderlust, Tattooine’s twin suns glimmering on a blanket of amethyst sky, John Williams’ maestro score interrupted by a tiny burp from Cartman. 

He was holding his cards close to his chest. Kenny had once witnessed him regurgitate the alphabet backwards and forwards; with enough beer and determination, he could list all fifty states. 

“Whew,” Cartman sighed, jostling his belly. Rolls of flesh jiggled against Kenny’s arm. 

Oh, fat-loving Christ. 

Kenny had a habit of blushing with his entire upper body, now currently exposed. He crossed his arms to mask the evidence of his arousal. 

The movie cut to commercial, ridding him of excusable distraction. Cartman glugged a timely swill, emanating exaggerated swallows. Kenny rubbed his thighs together as if he could castrate himself before his erection thickened fully. 

The onscreen salesman had yet to finish peddling wares when Cartman desisted. He trumpeted a classic burp of legendary caliber to impress, though the sharp inhalation that came after sounded genuinely taxed. 

Kenny flinched as the soda can toppled out of Cartman’s slack grip. He glanced through a loose lock of hair to observe Cartman rubbing his belly in tight circles, breathing in through his nose and out through his wet, shiny mouth. Kenny wanted to rip off his dumb cut-off tee and knead his bubbly gut, lick the syrup off his lips, press a knee between his legs and let Cartman rut against him-- 

He sat forward and retrieved the fourth soda. “Here ya go.” 

A lesser man would drink as much as possible as quickly as possible, only to tucker out halfway through. But Cartman was a tactician in every regard, kinky dares included, and paced himself accordingly. 

They’d be at this for awhile. 

Kenny focused back on Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen’s burnt corpses. Cartman portioned disciplined sips, playing the long game. Save for an occasional burble from his gut he showed no signs of discomfort. 

Kenny lacked such endurance. He was strung taut as a bow, waiting for gratification he would not receive. Cartman knew this and exploited it. Both their shorts were rucked up, thighs glued together by congealed sweat; the skin contact was insufferable, itching Kenny to his core. 

His ears perked every time the soda can crinkled. Cartman was down to the second half. He polished it off in between fatigued sighs, until it too fell to join its predecessor on the floor. Stalwart and poker-faced, he requested the fifth drink which Kenny hastily provided. Combined with the two from before, that equated to seven in total. Not that Kenny was keeping track. 

Cartman rested the can against his lip, pausing only a moment before gathering resolve. Kenny kept his gaze trained on the television. They were participating in the opposite of a stare-off. The first to look--and thereby acknowledge the sexually frustrated elephant in the room--lost. Kenny was not a sore loser, but more often than not their scoreboard tipped in Cartman’s favor, and he yearned for a win. 

This was made difficult when Cartman involuntarily whimpered. He lurched forward, slammed the soda can on the coffee table, and emitted an earth-shattering burp. It was honestly pretty gross, but the way he cradled his stomach and sucked in shuddering breaths afterward trumped Kenny’s disgust. 

He backhanded the offending can to the floor; it landed with a hollow ping. 

Realization dawned with the rise of Kenny’s boner. “Holy shit. Did you down that whole thing?” 

“Don’t talk to me,” Cartman groused, still curled in on himself. 

“How long was that? Thirty seconds?” 

Cartman gagged wetly. “Dunno. Forgot my stopwatch.” 

Kenny palmed Cartman’s rigid spine; his shoulder blades were contracted so tightly that they clipped through the blubber of his back and damp material of his t-shirt. “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already.” 

Cartman rolled his shoulders. “I just need a--hic--second.” 

Kenny’s hand fell between his ass and the couch cushion. He felt compelled to lend support, but that wasn’t the name of the game. He thumbed past the hem of Cartman’s shorts--no boxers; it was too hot for either of them to chance swampy scrotum--and raked his nail down Cartman’s ass crack. “Okay. Your second’s over.” 

“Ow, fuck!” Cartman jolted with another hiccup, in too much pain to fully register Kenny’s probing touch. He collapsed backwards, trapping Kenny’s hand. “Tell me--hic--something scary.” 

“You’re gonna die one day.” 

“I welcome death with open arms.” 

“I’m gonna die one day.” 

“Not soon enough.” 

Kenny laughed. “Shit, man. You’re unbreakable.” 

Cartman pursed his lips. “I dunno about that.” He tipped his head on Kenny’s shoulder. “It hurts.” 

Kenny’s breath hitched. “Yeah? Where?” 

Cartman rolled his shirt up, exposing the overtaxed curve of his stomach. “Here.” 

Kenny placed his free hand on Cartman’s ballooned abdomen. “Here?” 

Cartman nodded. 

Kenny licked his lips, nostrils flared. He gently curled his fingers, testing the lessened give of Cartman’s flesh, then roved south toward Cartman’s bladder. 

Cartman stiffened. Kenny paused, granting an opportunity to call uncle. Cartman twisted closer, eyes screwed shut, and didn’t say a word. 

Kenny pressed down. 

Cartman jumped. “Ah! Ohhh--” 

Kenny immediately returned his palm to Cartman’s stomach. Hot to the touch, it roiled with activity. Kenny flexed his other hand before it went numb, fingering between Cartman’s ass cheeks to distract from his next attack on Cartman’s bladder. 

“Kenny,” Cartman whined. “Stop, I’m--hic--I gotta--” 

Wrist tendons taut, Kenny put some weight into it, creating a depression in Cartman’s belly. “Gotta what?” 

Cartman flung his arm around Kenny’s chest and pulled him close, seeking comfort from the maker of his misery. “You know.” 

Kenny relinquished his offense and resumed rubbing Cartman’s belly, any sadistic tactics tossed out the window. He wasn’t like Cartman, who enjoyed switching MO’s at the drop of a hat; the second Cartman required coddling he shifted gears, and would ride the rest of this out sweet as sugar. “You really gotta pee, don’tcha? Okay. That’s fine.” 

Cartman released a relieved sigh and made to stand. 

Kenny snatched his wrist. “Where d’you think you’re going?” 

Cartman’s eyes widened. He formed a fist, arm tense--capable of breaking out of Kenny’s hold any time if he truly wanted to. “There’s a lot.” 

“I bet there is,” Kenny said, stroking his fluttering pulse point. 

Cartman slowly relaxed into the couch. His hiccups had vanished, incidentally. “Whatever. I can hold it.” 

“Can you?” Kenny wondered aloud. He patted Cartman’s gut and got a bubbly rebuttal in response. 

Cartman winced. “Don’t do that.” 

Kenny tapped him again. “You drank a lot, dude.” He wormed his hand beneath Cartman’s shorts and grasped Cartman’s half-hard cock. Wetness smeared across his palm; its viscosity didn’t match Cartman’s pre-cum, with which he was expertly acquainted. “Look at that. You’re fit to burst.” 

“Goddamn it--” Cartman covered his face in his hands, absolutely burning with embarrassment. “I hate you, Kenny.” 

“I’m just saying, big boy. You’ll feel better if you let it out.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because.” 

“Because why?” 

“Because I can’t!” 

“Hmmm.” Kenny swept the pad of his thumb over Cartman’s slit. Another trickle of fluid followed, though nothing would be uncorked without Cartman’s cooperation. “Nervous?” 

Cartman parted his fingers, glaring. His hips twitched in place, torn between fleeing Kenny’s touch and seeking greater friction. 

Kenny began slowly pumping his cock. “You don’t have to be scared. It’s okay.” He cracked a grin, unable to withhold himself. “Everybody pees, y’know.” 

The shitty jibe sent Cartman off the edge. “Not on their fucking couch!” He pushed Kenny away and hopped to his feet--then immediately slammed his knees together and cupped his crotch in both hands. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck--” 

“Whoa--hey, now.” Kenny stood and looped an arm around Cartman’s shoulders. “It’s alright, Eric.” 

“Kenny, I can’t--” Cartman grimaced. “I can’t hold it anymore.” 

“Well,” Kenny considered. “We can either call this off, run you to the bathroom, and hope we make it in time. Or...” He dipped his chin and kissed Cartman’s quivering jaw. “You sit down, relax, and I’ll jerk you off.” 

Cartman’s throat bobbed. “But...it’s messy.” 

“I’ll shampoo the couch,” Kenny promised. “I’ll mop the floor. I’ll give you a sponge bath.” 

“It’s gross,” Cartman argued next. 

Kenny pressed his pelvis flush with Cartman’s. “Do I look grossed out to you?” 

Cartman squinted down at their conjoined fronts. “That doesn’t mean anything. Nothing grosses you out.” 

Kenny tugged Cartman’s hair, forcing his eyes upward. “You ain’t no priss either. You knew exactly where I was going with this.” 

“I know you’re a sick fuck,” Cartman said. “You’re disgusting. You’re nasty as hell.” 

“Right,” Kenny assented. “So you can blame it on me. Tell yourself I forced you to drink all that soda at gunpoint.” He pushed his shorts down and ground his exposed cock against Cartman’s clasped hands. “That I took advantage of you, that you didn’t want this...” 

He tipped forward and dropped his forehead on Cartman’s shoulder. Cartman nearly buckled under his weight. “Kenny, I’m serious--” 

Kenny lifted on his tiptoes and jabbed the head of his cock into Cartman’s distended belly. 

Cartman cried out, hands flying up to grasp Kenny’s arms for balance. “Please, please stop--” 

“Nope,” Kenny huffed. Cartman’s stomach fizzed and popped, chagrined at the abuse; Kenny could feel it with his cock, floodgates threatening to spill. When would the levee break? “You want this, Eric.” 

“I really, really don’t,” Cartman moaned. His nails dug crimson crescents into Kenny’s biceps. “I don’t want this, Kenny.” 

Kenny stepped backwards. He kicked his shorts off and unfastened his disheveled ponytail, stood there buck naked with his hair loose around his shoulders, eyes netted by rouge fly-away strands. “Call it off, then.” 

Cartman glanced down the hall where the bathroom awaited him--private, porcelain, pristine. “That’s it? You’re letting me go?” 

“I never had you in the first place, man.” Kenny fell back onto the couch, tossed his feet up on the coffee table and stroked his cock, watching the television. “I got some business to take care of. You go take care of yours and get back to me.” 

By now Ben Kenobi had already perished at Darth Vader’s laser blade. Leia was saying something to Luke and Han, her breasts barely discernible through the white folds of her gown. Carrie Fischer was good as fap material as any--besides the sight of Cartman pissing himself, that is. Whatever. Kenny could deal. He wasn’t even mad. 

Cartman had yet to abscond. He remained where he stood, holding his leaky dick. “Wow. Just...wow, Kenny.” 

Kenny boredly flicked his wrist. “Lemme hear it, babe. I’m sick, I’m nasty--” 

“You’re a moron,” Cartman said. “You’re a fucking dumbass piece of shit retard.” 

He ditched his shorts and dropped into a straddle across Kenny’s thighs, all two hundred-odd pounds of him. 

Kenny squawked upon impact. “Um, what--” 

“You coulda pushed it a little,” Cartman said. He plopped his big hands on Kenny’s shoulders, boxed Kenny in with his big paunch, compressed Kenny’s legs between his big calves. “But no. You pussied out. I mean, honestly.” He burped in Kenny’s face--for show, for flavor, for the nasty hell of it--and closed his eyes, head knocked back. “What’s it take to get dommed around here?” 

“I don’t get it,” Kenny said. 

Cartman didn’t answer; the piss streaming across Kenny’s lap was explanation enough. 

“Oh,” Kenny said. 

“Oh, yeah,” Cartman agreed. 

“So, earlier--that was--” 

“A ruse?” Cartman opened his eyes, smirking. “Not all of it. Surprising as it may seem, taking a wazz on command goes against most people’s instincts.” And there was a blush on his face, a bashful undercurrent to his weaponized ire which he censored beneath the low sweep of his bangs. “But you’re into it, so. That helps.” 

Piss spilled down Kenny’s rock-hard rock, splashed along his inner thighs, seeped into the couch cushions. Kenny breathed in the musky odor, inclined to drown in its sweet-and-sour cloud. “I am very, very into this.” 

“At least one of us is.” 

Kenny peered at Cartman’s fountaining erection. “And you aren’t? Not even a little?” 

Cartman readjusted his stance to mitigate the overflow trickling down his balls. “I mean, well--” 

Kenny grasped his cock, unbothered--and to a certain extent, inspired--by the golden rivulets that skimmed his knuckles. “What was that?” 

“It’s not--all bad,” Cartman said. “It’s, uh, y’know--” 

“A relief. Bet it feels good, huh? Letting it go?” 

Cartman shuddered. “Y-yeah.” 

Kenny notched his hand up and down, traction sped along by the piss. “You really drank a lot. Look at yourself.” He paused when Cartman did not obey. “I mean it, Eric.” 

Cartman shoved his bangs out of his eyes, interlocked his fingers at the crown of his head, and glanced down. “Aw, Christ.” 

“It ain’t stopping,” Kenny observed, resuming his haphazard handjob. “How’s it feel?” 

“Good.” 

Kenny placed his other hand atop Cartman’s stomach, applied the slightest bit of pressure. 

Cartman jolted. His cock spurted a hastened load of piss; his chest hairs gleamed with a fresh breakout of sweat. “Ah, hah...” 

Kenny licked his lips, grinning. “Want me to do it again?” 

Cartman nodded. Kenny obliged and his face crumpled. “Ohhh--Oh, Ken--” 

“Piss for me,” Kenny murmured. “Be a good boy, Eric.” 

A growl tangled in the back of Cartman’s throat. He lowered his hands from his mussed hair, grabbed Kenny’s shoulders, and bucked into Kenny’s loose, wet fist. 

“That’s it,” Kenny encouraged. “You’re so good, Eric.” 

Sweat and piss splattered his stomach as Cartman’s bladder finally petered out. Cartman fell limp with relief, his haggard exhalations fanning Kenny’s hair. He nibbled Kenny’s Adam’s apple with lazy passes of teeth and tongue. 

Kenny followed the silent command, quickening his pumps to match the pace of his heart. Splooge joined their growing collection of bodily fluids. 

He opened his fist, inspected the web of cum and piss laced between his fingertips. “Goddamn.” 

Cartman rolled off his lap and rose on unsteady feet. “Goddamn,” he seconded. 

Kenny lifted his fingers to his lips. 

Cartman smacked his hand before he could dart his tongue for a cursory taste. “Don’t even think about it!” 

Kenny let his hand drop to his thigh. “Fine.” His nose scrunched as he realized the extent of their tryst. The couch was absolutely drenched beneath him, and he wasn’t faring much better. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Cartman announced. 

“Cool,” Kenny said. His gummy hand twitched toward his cock. “I’ll, uh, be here--” 

“You’re coming with me,” Cartman said. He tapped the weeping head of Kenny’s cock. “I’ll take care of that.” 

Appetizing as the thought of beating himself off lubed by Cartman’s piss and cum was, nothing topped gratification from the source. Kenny followed Cartman upstairs into their cramped shower and waited with bated breath as Cartman languished under the meager spray. 

“Lean back,” Cartman ordered once he deemed himself cleansed. 

The tiles took a bite out of Kenny’s spine as he reclined. The wall was slippery beneath his hands. He widened his gait, making room for Cartman to squat and take his cock in his mouth. 

Not even thirty seconds later he was cumming down Cartman’s throat. Cartman wasn’t much of a swallower, especially when his stomach was already upset with residual soda. He popped off and hacked a loogie at the shower drain, cum dribbling from the corners of his mouth. 

It was a pretty good look in Kenny’s opinion. He patted the top of Cartman’s head. “You’re awesome, dude.” 

Cartman’s knees creaked as he stood. “Thanks, bro.” 

They shared a sardonic grin, then broke into a fit of giggles. 

“Kinda weird, you gotta admit,” Kenny said. 

Cartman aimed an altogether juvenile kiss at Kenny’s cheek. “I like weird.” 

Given that the couch was currently off limits, they booted the AC and reconvened in bed, neither bothering to redress. They shoved the blankets at the foot of the mattress, exposing their naked skin to the cool air, and laid on their backs side-by-side to watch the shadows play across the ceiling. 

“Eric,” Kenny said. 

Cartman turned, half-asleep in a post-coital fugue state. “Hmm?” 

“There’s still some soda left.” 

“How much?” 

“Half.” 

“Well... Go get it.” 

Kenny picked himself up on an elbow. “Seriously?” 

Cartman glanced away, the route of skin between his neck and crotch adorned with a red racing stripe. “I’m not peeing on you again.” 

“That’d be a little overkill,” Kenny granted. His cheek dimpled in a contemplative frown. “You don’t have to go for a second round if you don’t want.” 

Cartman sighed. “You’re really bad at this.” 

Kenny blinked. “Oh. Was that, like, another test?” 

“Yup. And you failed. Miserably.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You don’t have a domineering bone in your body.” 

“I’ll practice. Starting right now.” 

Kenny raced downstairs, diverted toward the kitchen, then snatched the Double Dew off the coffee table. 

Cartman was sitting upright in bed when he returned. “What’s that?” 

“A straw,” Kenny said. He climbed beside Cartman and set the case of soda between them. “We’re outta funnels.” 

“Huh.” 

Kenny smirked. “Getting ideas?” 

“Fuck off,” Cartman mumbled.

Kenny slapped his wrist when he reached for a drink. “Easy, big boy.”

Cartman raised his hands in surrender. “Yes, sir.” 

“Your highness,” Kenny said. 

“Yes, your highness,” Cartman parroted. 

“You will respect my authority,” Kenny told him. 

Cartman huffed. “You’ll have to show some authority to deserve my respect.” 

Kenny opened a can, inserted the straw, and held it under Cartman’s chin. “Drink up.” 

Cartman’s eyes widened. He fetched the straw with his tongue, curled it between his teeth, and hollowed his cheeks. 

“Good boy,” Kenny praised. 

They’d be at this for awhile longer yet. 

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
